Page 76 of Salem’s Rise

“I would think less of you if it did.”

“And if you betray me, I will destroy you.”

A low, deep chuckle escapes him. “I believe you will try.”

He takes my hand, his grip warm and firm. The contact should feel formal, nothing more than an agreement between rivals. But then his thumb strokes absently over the inside of my wrist, as though even he doesn’t realize he’s doing it, and my pulse betrays me.

I tell myself I cannot, I will not, have feelings for this man. But I can make a deal with him if it will keep me alive long enough to find Josh.

I don’t accept because I want to win The Rites. I don’t care about the Veil or its power, its Houses, or the right to rule people who kill in the name of tradition.

I accept because Josh may still be alive, and the only way to find him is to fall deeper into the rabbit hole. My hope is more dangerous than grief, but I’m not ready to give it up yet.

“If this ‘alliance’ gets me killed,” I say, “I’m going to haunt you.”

Silas releases my hand slowly.

“You already do.”

November 20 (32 Days Until Dark Solstice)

My summons for the Second Trial of The Rites arrives beneath my door the very next evening. My pulse quickens as I stare with dread at the red wax bearing the same Mark of the Veil I have grown to sincerely dislike. I break the seal and read:

The Second Trial of Air shall open upon the East.

All claimants will present themselves at the Old Watchtower no later than midnight.

What cannot be seen must still be understood.

I arrive at the Old Watchtower dressed in my warmest sweater beneath a heavy coat, jeans, hiking boots, and a wool beanie pulled low over my ears. My hair is tightly braided down my back to keep it out of my eyes. This is important since I already have a sinking suspicion about what this trial might involve after a quick Google search of the location.

Official records described Salem’s Fall’s Old Watchtower as a late seventeenth-century military signal station once used to watch for ships, forest fires, and troop movements. The photos online made it look less like a historic landmark and more like the world’s deadliest ropes course. Now, standing at the bottom of the ridge—aptly named Witch’s Ridge—I see my hunch was correct.

The old watch station rises beyond the trees in fragments. Most of the original tower is gone, reduced to a black stone foundation and the skeletal remains of a platform high above the ridge. The route leading to it is visible only because torches have been fixed along the path, their flames bending sharply beneath the wind. Even from far below, I can make out pieces of the course.

First is the steep ascent disappearing into the tree line. Above that, a narrow path clinging to the rock face designed by someone who clearly disliked both safety and visitors. Finally, the rope-and-plank bridge leading to the summit where a weathered signal platform waits against the sky.

The good news is I am not afraid of heights.

The bad news is I’m certain at least some of my competitors will be happy to throw me from said heights.

I walk over to join the remaining contestants gathering near the trailhead. We are just twelve now. The number feels obscenely small after the First Trial. I feel Jonah’s absence like a pit in my stomach. He should be here, standing beside Wren and Lena, quiet and watchful, his hands tucked into his coat pockets. Instead, there is a sad, empty space between them.

Wren sees me first, her face softening in welcome. I cross the clearing and hug her before I can overthink it. She stiffens in surprise, then holds on tightly enough to make my ribs ache. Lena joins in a second later, wrapping one arm around each of us.

After losing Jonah and spending more time with Wren and Lena, I feel closer to them than I expected. Considering how many people here would probably be happy to see me dead, I’ve decided having a few allies isn’t such a bad thing.

Across the clearing, Van stands with a broad, shaved-headed and tattooed man I vaguely recognize from the First Trial. Van says something to him, and they both look directly at me, shooting daggers with their eyes. Not exactly subtle.

I notice Rowan and Georgina are together again. Lately, they seem closer. Silas is with them too, standing slightly apart as Rowan says something to Georgina. A moment later, she turns to Silas, taking his arm and leaning in to whisper in his ear. Silas smiles at whatever she says, and I wonder if I imagined our entire conversation last night. Maybe his proposed alliance with me lasted all of twenty-four hours.

But then he disentangles from her grasp and catches my eye. It feels like everyone notices as he walks over to stand at my side. Georgina definitely notices, as does Rowan, his expression going flat in a way that feels almost dangerous.

Silas arches an eyebrow. “You’re late.”

“I’m ten minutes early.”

“You arrived after me,” he says.